


I chose your side

by Cirilla9



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: :(, F/M, Fix-It, Hvitserk can't die, M/M, Manipulation, Poor Life Choices, Power Play, Reconciliation Sex, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Spoilers, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 11:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17021970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirilla9/pseuds/Cirilla9
Summary: I fixed Ivar/Hvitserk talk on the subject of Margrethe.





	I chose your side

**Author's Note:**

> I rewrote a part of 5B ep 3 because I refuse to accept the nicest character is about to die.
> 
> Special thanks to @catastrophage who was so kind to beta this story!

“Hvitserk, we don’t get along that well recently,” Ivar said.

  
“You don’t say,” Hvitserk shot back, thinking of the murdered girl. Margrethe was for him… well, maybe not the woman he loved most, but he liked her. A lot. She was Ubbe’s wife, a reminder of the happier times, when his brother invited him to his marital bed instead of sparing his life on the battlefield.

  
She was once their shared entertainment, for all of them, Ivar excluding.

  
The ice-cold stare of the blue eyes nearly pierced him but Hvitserk couldn’t be bothered by it. Ivar always stared as if wondering if he should kill the person he was talking with. It was his way since childhood. So Hvitserk didn’t waste time on a staring contest but rather looked around for more mead for his nigh empty horn. Lately he often drowned his sorrows in booze, and his bloodthirsty little brother made sure he had plenty of worries.

  
“This is why, as a truce deal, I have- we have” Ivar corrected himself, taking Freydis' hand in his, “a wonderful offer for you.”

  
“Oh, great, I could use some wonderfulness,” Hvitserk exclaimed, tone acerbic.

  
Ivar pretended not to notice his sour mood, carrying on with his line of thoughts.

  
“We want you to join us tonight.”

  
Hvitserk nearly choked on his mead. Unsure if he understood Ivar’s words right, he raised his eyes at the regal pair. His brother was watching him with a hectic grin, Freydis’ glance was serious.

  
“In our bed,” the new queen specified, in her profound, mystical voice.

  
Hvitserk's first thought was to refuse their offer in harsh words. But Freydis’ hair were blond just like Margrethe’s and alcohol coursed trough his veins, clouded his mind and dimmed his reason – and that was probably the cause why he said yes.

  
***

Her hair was blond just like…

  
“Margrethe…” Hvitserk whispered.

  
A quick hand clenched his own braids, pulling sharply; Ivar’s mouth ghosted over his ear, hot breath burned his neck and cheek. “Don’t call her that. She’s my wife. She’s a goddess, Freya in bed, don’t call her the slave’s name."

  
Hvitserk bared his teeth, halfway from pain, halfway from anger. Margrethe was not a slave since marrying Ubbe, and she was so much more than a brother’s sweetheart to Hvitserk recently. How Ivar dared to still call her a slave just because deep inside he felt inferior, threatened by Margrethe knowing of his disability far more shaming than his incapacity to walk.

  
But before he could spit some venom at his little brother, Freydis’ gentle palm touched his manhood, fingers encircled the girth, feather-like strokes caressed him – and he forgot what he was about to say under the onslaught of pleasure and the rush of blood.

  
He was dimly aware Ivar’s hand was still entangled in his hair, his carefully plaited braids loosening. Ivar was pressed to his back, chin propped on his shoulder, watching the queen pleasuring the king’s brother.

  
Hvitserk could feel Ivar's excitement in the fast beat of his heart, in the shallowness of his breath. Not in his erection. But his lower half was concealed under covers, the bedding obscuring his deformed body, leaving  only his impressive chest and arms and a handsome face in plain view. One of his muscular arms sneaked around Hvitserk’s waist to touch Mar- Freydis, and Hvitserk’s breath caught as Ivar brushed his manhood in the process.

  
Freydis looked up, past Hvitserk, communicating with Ivar wordlessly. Then Ivar was embracing him, and Freydis lifted her skirts, climbing upon Hvitserk’s lap. His chest heaved as she sunk onto him, began to move. His brother’s tattooed forearms warmed his naked skin.

  
He was caught between his brother's sturdiness and Freydis' soft curves, trapped between two opposites, the body of a warrior, the figure of a goddess, as they both brought him closer to a release. His brother was tough, Freydis was gentle, her careful touch soothing Ivar's cruelty as his little brother whispered poison to Hvitserk's ear:

  
"See? I can be generous. I can award the faithfulness of my men just as I punish treachery. She had to die, Hvitserk, she always schemed to overthrow me. She would turn you, my own brother, against me. You must never betray me."

  
Ivar had always been not only a good fighter but also a talented manipulator. He could lead an army or rule a court life with the same efficiency, seeming rash, impulsive and hotheaded from the outside, but on the inside he always had a cool and calculated plan, down to tiny details. Even now, his words, seemingly praising, bore hidden threat in them.

  
Perhaps Hvitserk would have questioned his life-changing choice from the past, if he was in any shape to think coherently at the moment. But now he was lost in those four hands exploring his body and the closeness of two bodies pressing at him from each side.

  
(And when he was sober and considered it, like he had many times before, he irrevocably reached the same conclusion: Ivar was his brother, the most impressive one of his siblings, with the greatest charisma and charm. He was the one Hvitserk admired the most, and he would never leave his side. Ivar was the one he wished to follow and that would never change, no matter what new atrocity his little brother committed.)

  
Amidst the pleasure of Freydis' moist heat sliding up and down his manhood, Ivar's teeth biting too harsh or his nails scraping too deep were like thorns amidst a wild rose's blossoming flowers. Intoxicated by pain, drunk on bliss, Hvitserk came with a broken cry.

  
***

  
The next morning found them sleeping entangled in limbs and furs. Their hair was tousled and undone. Hvitserk had his head pillowed on Ivar’s chest, half laying on him, Freydis’ leg was tossed over his thighs.

  
It was the first morning on which he woke up late, all by himself, not torn from Nótt’s dark arms by Margrethe’s screams, real or dreamed ones. The loss of the girl still pained him, but for the very first time in a really long while he didn’t feel the overwhelming loneliness.


End file.
